


The Siren’s Song That Is Your Madness (Holds A Truth I Can’t Erase)

by RemyCampbell



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU- Modern, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras needs to get his act together, Enjolras/Grantaire-centric, Grantaire Angst, Gun Violence, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Les Amis de l’ABC, M/M, Sad Grantaire, Sad R is sad, immigration rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-04-25 01:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14368068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemyCampbell/pseuds/RemyCampbell
Summary: A rally goes wrong. Grantaire’s devotion to Enjolras outweighs his self preservation. Enjolras must deal with the fallout.





	1. Prologue

**Greetings, comrades in nerdiness and literary fervor!**

**Forgive me for writing a brief preface to this piece. I have written Les Miserables fanfiction before, frequently. (They’re all on my Fanfiction account, but if folks want me to repost here, I can certainly do that.) But I have never before written them into a contemporary era.**

**I’ve read quite a few modern day fics of the Friends of the ABC, however, and it makes sense. I can see them so easily on a university campus or at any of the many rallies that have been held over the past year several years. I can imagine them in my politics and policy classes. And frankly, we need them.**

**And so I’ve put them in 2018 for this story, and more specifically, in America. Yes, I know, Enjolras would destroy me for pulling them from his beloved Patria. But then he’d take one look at what we’re becoming and he’d set up shop right here, determined to defend the ideals on which America was founded.**

**Meanwhile, he’d still be utterly oblivious, and Grantaire will be Grantaire in any era or country. Thus, this story came about. I hope you enjoy it.**

**My humble regards to Victor Hugo, the greatest author to grace this earth. Do please forgive me for borrowing your characters.**

**~Remy**  
———————————————————-

The topic was immigrants’ rights this time. Specifically, the rights of students who were brought to the country as children, by no fault of their own, and were now trying their best to grow into well-educated, upstanding citizens. The Friends of the ABC had been covering the issue for months: writing op-eds to the university newspaper as well as citywide publications, arranging a guest speaker on immigration reform, and passing out fliers informing students of their rights. Now, as the government continued to call for the removal of the protections they had offered these young people, the group had organized a rally.

They’d advertised it well and hundreds of supporters and counterprotesters had crowded onto the campus green, spilling onto the city sidewalks. Combeferre and Marius had both managed to line up several excellent speakers, and were currently standing with them behind the platform from which they would be speaking. Feuilly and Bahorel were manning a table to the side of the stage, where students could sign their names to petitions; one which would be sent to the president of the University and another which would be sent to Congress. The other members of the Friends of the ABC stood at the front of the crowd, holding signs about immigration reform, protecting their classmates, and tearing down walls.

Grantaire sat on the steps leading up to the stage, looking out over the crowd. They’d done well today. Even he had to admit that the vast turnout would likely shift policy- if not on a national level, at least at the university, where administrators had, until this point, carefully avoided taking a stance on the proposed policy changes that would endanger over a hundred students on campus.

Of course, there were counterprotesters, standing on the grass with signs bearing racist slogans, occasionally chanting about the wall they wanted to build. It disgusted him and for a brief moment, he had considered marching over and telling them to shove off. Enjolras had stopped him with a hand on his arm (which absolutely had not made Grantaire’s heart flutter).

“They have just as much right to free speech as we do,” Enjolras had reminded him. “No matter how ugly their words may be. And we will not antagonize them. Let them antagonize us instead; let them look like the uncultured bullies they so clearly are. Besides, more conflict means more press coverage. They’re actually helping us spread our message further.”

Now, Enjolras stood at the podium, addressing the crowd in his strong, clear voice. He was opening the event, laying out the issue so clearly and succinctly that agreeing with him was simply the natural response. Grantaire was proud of himself for finding this vantage point. At this angle, he could see Enjolras’ face, bright with the surety of his words, as well as the faces of the crowd, their intent gazes granting Enjolras the respect and admiration he deserved. Grantaire wished he could pull out his sketch pad and capture the expression on that flawless face, but he knew Enjolras would be angry if he appeared distracted in so public a setting. He contented himself with watching, then, assuring himself that he would spend the evening attempting to recreate this moment in charcoal.

Enjolras was always beautiful. When he was intently focused, reading or writing about the political theories that moved him so, he pulsed with energy. When he planned events like this one, the hope that radiated from his eyes was infections, though Grantaire pretended he was always thoroughly immune. In the brief moments when he actually relaxed, talking with his friends about something other than politics or sitting with his knees curled up and enjoying a film, the warmth that was so often hidden beneath his fire could easily be observed. But like this- standing in front of a crowd, calling the people to action in defense of what was just and good- he was radiant. He was truly Apollo, clipped out of an ancient illustration and pasted here for mortal men to follow to the light. He turned his head, surveying the crowd, and his eyes briefly caught Grantaire’s, who looked away immediately.

He’d been caught staring. Again. Which was nothing new. But at meetings and social gatherings, Grantaire could always say something funny or obnoxious or goading, effectively drawing Enjolras’ attention away from the admiration Grantaire bestowed on him. Out here at a public event, Grantaire had to at least try to play it cool. Which he supposed he was utterly failing at, considering he was currently sitting on the steps of the stage, watching the podium as though the man behind it were giving out the answers to the secrets of life.

Doubly embarrassed by the redness he could feel burning across his face, Grantaire forced his gaze to focus on the crowd. Courfeyrac stood in the front row, recording the speech on a small camera. The crowd behind him was clearly enthralled by what they were hearing; some were nodding in agreement, hearing their own beliefs clearly articulated for them, while others were drinking in new ideas, their eyes alight with sparks of awakening. Off to the side, the dissenters remained, obviously just as aware as Grantaire of the effect Enjolras’ words had on the crowd. They were grumbling to themselves, glaring at the crowd and shifting restlessly.

Two particularly angry young men stood toward the front of the group, holding a large red sign bearing several racist slurs. The taller of the two shifted the sign, trying and failing to create an inconspicuous space for his friend to pull a large handgun.

Grantaire froze, staring at the gun, for what felt like an hour but could only have been two seconds at most. He saw the barrel pointing towards Enjolras in the same instant he realized that he was the only person who had noticed what was happening.

The men were twenty yards away.

Shouting at his friends would do nothing.

Grantaire didn’t hesitate as he leapt up and sprinted toward the podium.

————————————————————————————

**Alright, readers. We’ve made it past the prologue. Here’s where things get going. Buckle up!**

**PS- the title is taken from the Third Eye Blind song “God of Wine”, which I think is one of the most E/R songs ever.**

 


	2. The Rally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is so focused on the bright future ahead that he can’t see what’s going on right before him.

**Hello folks! You came back for the next bit! Well, that’s a good sign.**

**A few quick notes:**

***This is going up so soon after the prologue because I sort of wrote it all together.**

***Moving forward, I want to try to do a consistent update schedule with this piece. Shall we say, new chapter on Saturdays? I’ve never done something like that before, but I think it’ll be good practice.**

***I really hope people enjoy this piece. Please do leave feedback.**

**~Remy**

* * *

 

Enjolras adored these moments. When all of their hard work paid off and they had the chance to truly engage the people in a public space. It was as invigorating as it was effective. And though he would never tell his friends, for fear of sounding pompous or self indulgent, he relished in the thrill of standing before a large group and making a speech.

It was, by all measures, a perfectly successful event thus far. The crowds were larger than expected. A few members of the local press were in attendance. He knew from the expressions on the faces before him that his words were having their desired effect.

And then suddenly he was sprawled on the floor of the stage, a heavy weight pressed on top of him and pain shooting through his ankle as it protested the abrupt change of position. Before he even had time to catch his breath, he was being pulled to his feet, dragged off the stage, and led swiftly through crowd. People were moving in all directions. Anxious shouts pierced the air. Desperate to make sense of what was going on, Enjolras focused on the hand that had latched onto his arm in a death grip and was fighting to pull him away from the commotion. He recognized the green hoodie and mess of dark curls to which the arm was attached as Grantaire’s. Grantaire had shoved him down in the middle of his speech. Grantaire was dragging him through the crowd. Grantaire had, in all likelihood, instigated this complete chaos, since everything had been perfectly fine before Enjolras was pushed.

By this time, he knew where they were headed. Although their rallies were always peaceful, with the worst disruptions being hecklers tossing cruel words their way, the Friends of the ABC had been sure to create an emergency plan in case anything ever went wrong. They were to leave the site of their event in small groups, no one on their own, as peaceably as possible. They would reconvene at the Musain Student Center and Cafe, specifically in the group study room in the back that they had long since adopted as their unofficial meeting point. Still, even once he had gotten his bearings, Enjolras and his sore ankle could barely keep up with Grantaire, who was flat out running across campus, dragging Enjolras behind him.

The crowd around the stage had been dense and panicky, nearly impossible to navigate, so by the time they reached the back room of the Musain the rest of the group was already there. “Is everyone alright?” Enjolras asked at once, trying to appear collected and in control of the situation, though his mind was still racing in an attempt to figure out just where it had all gone wrong.

“Are you alright?” Courfeyrac replied. Enjolras was surprised to hear a faint note of hysteria in his voice.

“Yes,” he answered dismissively. “What about everyone else?”

It was Combeferre who finally answered. “We’re fine. Bahorel has a bloody nose and Feuilly is going to have an impressive black eye tomorrow, but we’re all fine. What about the two of you?”

“We’re alright.” He glanced to his right, where Grantaire had been standing only moments before, but found it empty. Apparently Joly and Jehan had led him to a wooden chair a few feet away. He had slumped into it and was panting for breath. “Grantaire twisted my ankle when he shoved me down and proceeded to drag me here, but we are otherwise unscathed.”

He meant it as a joke, delivered in the same fake annoyed tone with which he reprimanded Grantaire for his less harmful heckling at meetings. But the only response he received were glares from Courfeyrac and Bahorel, their expressions mixtures of frustration and anger. Everyone else was focused solely on Grantaire.

The cynic was still seated gracelessly in the chair. Jehan was standing beside him, apparently supporting him, while Joly peeled off his sweatshirt. “I’m fine,” Grantaire insisted between shaky breaths. “Honestly, please don’t fuss. I’m alright. I’m fi-” His words cut off abruptly as he lurched forward and vomited onto his shoes.

“Oh for God’s sake, Grantaire, get a grip on yourself,” Enjolras snapped. He was worried about Grantaire, of course he was, but also incredibly aggravated- and disappointed- at the other man’s behavior. Had he really drunk himself sick on the day of a rally?

Grantaire was speaking again, though his words now slurred together and sounded like a moan more than actual speech. “M’sorry, ‘Pollo. ‘S the adrenaline wearin’ off, I guess. Sorry.” Well, that made Enjolras feel a bit guilty, actually. He was always the first to call Grantaire out on his bad behavior, but he didn’t mean to upset the man further when he was obviously already shaken.

Jehan pulled up a chair beside Grantaire and had leaned the man onto their chest. “It’s alright, love,” they murmured, stroking Grantaire’s mess of curls off of his face. “You’re alright. You’re so brave, but we’ve got you now and everything is going to be just fine.”

Joly, meanwhile, had shifted fully into what Bossuet teasingly called “doctor mode”, but there was nothing remotely amusing about it today. His face was determined and Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever seen the nervous hypochondriac ever look so clinically detached. “Bossuet, we need an ambulance here. Now.”

“On it,” his boyfriend replied immediately. “I’ll wait for them on the street so they can get in,” he announced, rushing out the door while already dialing his phone.

“Everyone else, out,” Joly commanded.

“What on earth is going on?” Enjolras asked, feeling as though he clearly must be missing something if everyone was getting this worked up over Grantaire’s hysterics. Apparently, he had voiced that thought aloud and apparently it was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Grantaire let out a pathetic noise that sounded horribly like a sob.

“Get him the hell out of here!” Joly roared. Enjolras was so shocked, having never heard Joly raise his voice before, that he didn’t even protest as his friends guided him forcefully from the room.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” Courfeyrac hissed as soon as the door to the back room was shut behind them. Enjolras felt his mouth fall open in surprise. Courfeyrac never spoke to anyone that way, not even when he was arguing. Fury and disappointment mixed together in an ugly torrent that was directed directly solely at Enjolras, while the rest of their friends glared at their leader with matching expressions.

“What’s wrong with you?” Enjolras snapped in reply. He knew that was far from an eloquent comeback, but he was thoroughly confused and starting to get angry about it. “I’m still trying to figure out what the hell went wrong out there. Who threw the first punch? It wasn’t any of us, was it?”

Immediately, Courfeyrac’s anger vanished. He couldn’t, however, seem to find another emotion with which to replace it, instead staring blankly at Enjolras, then at the others.

Thankfully, Combeferre, who always seemed to know just what to say, stepped in. “Enjolras? Did you not see what happened out there?”

“No. I was speaking and it was all going off without a hitch and then I was on the ground and then there was a mass panic and we were running here.”

“Someone pulled a gun on you.”

It took Enjolras a full twenty seconds to grasp what Combeferre was saying in his ever calm tone. The words didn’t make sense, even though he was sure he’d heard them correctly. “There was shooting?”

“Just one shot, we think. You had no idea?” This was Bahorel, who minutes before had been glaring at Enjolras like he was contemplating the most painful way to murder him, but now just looked devastated.

“No,” Enjolras answered. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“You probably didn’t hear it because you were in the process of hitting the ground,” Combeferre rationalized.

“Why would I-” He froze, still looking at Combeferre, who saw the exact moment that the marble facade which Grantaire had dubbed Apollo shattered, leaving behind a stunned and horrified young man. “Oh gods, Grantaire.”

His friends made no move to stop him as he rushed into the back room.

* * *

 

**I actually wasn’t planning on breaking the chapter here, but I think it’s a good natural pause point. So, next chapter, we get to see Enjolras at least make an attempt at redeeming himself for being an accidental epic jerk.**


	3. Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is utterly thrown.

**Chapter three. In which Enjolras is just really bad at interpersonal relationships.**

**I am exceedingly sorry this is late, friends. My excuse is that I’m finishing up my Masters of Public Administration, so I suppose at the very least, Enjolras will forgive me.**

**————————————————————————————**

In the seconds it took Enjolras to reach the back room, his mind had concocted a dozen horrifying scenarios of what he would see when he entered. Much to his relief, however, the scene appeared mostly unchanged. Jehan remained seated beside Grantaire, supporting his weight and speaking gently to him. Joly stood at Grantaire’s other side, his cane abandoned, leaning heavily against the injured man’s shoulder to simultaneously steady himself and apply pressure to a wound that Enjolras hadn’t even realized had occurred. Grantaire’s sweatshirt was wadded up in the medical student’s hand, soaked by several large, dark stains.

Enjolras stood frozen, unsure of where to stand, how to be of assistance, what to say to a man who jumped in front of a gun for him. They hadn’t noticed his presence. Enjolras pretended that Combeferre was in the room telling him what to do, a tactic he often employed when he didn’t know how to handle a social interaction. But even Combeferre would likely struggle with the madness that this day had become.

“Just be kind to him,” Jehan had told him once, after a particularly nasty argument that Enjolras was quite sure had nearly left the cynic in tears. “He wants you to like him. I know his arguments come off as harsh, but he truly doesn’t mean to make you angry.”

Right. He could do this. Enjolras marched toward them, steeling his determination as if he were about to confront a crowd of angry counterprotesters. He knelt down in front of Grantaire, trying to meet his eyes. Joly shot him a harsh look that clearly said, “If you upset him, I will bodily remove you from this room.” Despite his physical frailty, Enjolras believed him.

“Grantaire?”

The man in question looked up immmediately. His skin was ashen and his eyes were unfocused with pain, though he was obviously putting a great deal of effort into trying to meet Enjolras’ gaze. “Apollo? You’re back. Are you alright? ‘M sorry I pushed you. How badly did I hurt your ankle? Are you alright? I’m sorry.”

The guilt flooding Enjolras choked off any words he was about to utter. Grantaire was apologizing to him. He was slouched in their meeting room, against the chest of one of their fellow activists, bleeding from a bullet wound in his shoulder, after having been shot protecting a man who did nothing but argue with him, and he was apologizing.

“My ankle is fine,” Enjolras assured him. “The entire situation just caught me completely off guard. I had no idea, Grantaire.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Enjolras felt a surge of relief at Grantaire’s snarky tone. “Your big head so far up in the clouds, you can’t even see someone shooting at it.” His crooked smile suddenly vanished as a jolt of pain seared through him.

Without thinking, Enjolras reached out and laid a hand on Grantaire’s chest. Instantly, the other man seemed to calm. Enjolras stayed silent, completely lost as to what to say, allowing Jehan to resume their gentle murmuring of kind words. Still, he remained on his knees, offering the support of his hands and praying that somehow, he was bringing some sort of relief.

Time seemed oddly broken in the back room of the Musain, stretching on endlessly as they anxiously waited for the ambulance, jostled by Grantaire’s ragged breathing, paused in a moment that was somehow strangely peaceful as two men who spent most of their time lashing out at each other formed some sort of momentary accord.

It was only minutes before Bousset burst through the door with the ambulance crew in tow, though it felt like hours to Enjolras. Joly updated them on the situation while Jehan carefully propped Grantaire up in his chair and stepped out of the way. An EMT reached over Enjolras’ head to slide an oxygen mask over Grantaire’s face. “Sir, I need you to move,” she instructed. Enjolras muttered a hasty apology and stood, but Grantaire suddenly leaned forward unsteadily and grabbed onto his wrist.

“Apollo?” For the first time, there was fear in Grantaire’s tone. Enjolras knelt back down, careful to position himself out of the way of the EMS crew.

“I’m here, Grantaire. And there are people here to help you. We’re getting you to a hospital as soon as we can.” The words were stupid, clumsy. Enjolras would have been angry at himself, but for the relief that immediately flooded Grantaire’s face. They remained holding hands as Enjolras helped the EMTs maneuver Grantaire onto their stretcher and as they wheeled him out to the ambulance. But when Enjolras prepared to climb into the back, the woman who had asked him to move earlier stopped him.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we need the space in the ambulance to treat him,” she informed him gently.

“Of course.” Enjolras pulled away immediately, not wanting to interfere.

“Apollo!” Grantaire looked as if the loss of Enjolras’ grasp was more painful than the bullet wound. For a moment, Enjolras considered climbing aboard the ambulance and refusing to leave. But the EMT was already gently easing Grantaire back onto the stretcher.

“It’s alright, Mr. Grantaire. He’ll meet you at the hospital. Just lie still and we’ll get you there as quickly as we can.”

“My car is here,” Courfeyrac immediately supplied. Enjolras hadn’t even realized the rest of the group had followed them out of the Musain. “Two blocks away. I brought it to carry all the equipment we needed for the event.”

“Go,” Combeferre instructed. “You, Jehan, and Enjolras. And Joly, in case you need someone who can speak medical. We’ll get in cabs and be right behind you.”

Courfeyrac nodded once, then rushed down the sidewalk with Jehan and Joly behind him. Enjolras followed, for once glad that others had fully taken charge of the situation.

He barely remembered climbing into the backseat of the car, hurrying into the emergency room, waiting in the lobby while the rest of their group arrived in several cabs. He knew that he had been less than polite to the nurse who told them that they needed time to examine Grantaire before guests were allowed back to see him. He hadn’t been able to focus at all on the words of the doctor who had come out to speak to them, instead fixating on the small stain of fresh blood on the sleeve of the man’s white coat. He forced himself to listen when Joly summarized the information for them after the doctor had gone back to his patients.

“He doesn’t appear to be in any immediate danger, but they still want to take him to surgery as soon as possible to get the bullet out. We were right; it was just one shot, and it hit him in the right shoulder. They’ve got an IV in him, giving him fluids and an antibiotic to prevent infection in the wound. They gave him some pain medication, so he’s probably much more comfortable, though likely a bit drowsy. He’s going up to surgery as soon as the OR staff is ready for him, but we have a few minutes at least. Only one person at a time, though.”

He was acutely aware of the moment that eight sets of eyes locked onto him.

“Why should I go in?” Enjolras questioned. He never knew what to say to Grantaire at the best of times. Surely this would be a better task for Bahorel or Jehan, who Enjolras knew were quite close to Grantaire outside of meetings. “We barely talk except to fight with each other. If only one person can go in, it should be the person closest to him.”

“Actually, it should be the person he most wants to see,” replied Jehan. “Besides, he already knows that we love him. He’s always fighting for your approval; this would be a good moment to give it to him.”

Well, that was reasonable, Enjolras conceded. And he certainly did want an opportunity to thank Grantaire for what he had done. He stepped through the curtain to Grantaire’s room. The nurse at the bedside smiled encouragingly. Did that mean he looked as uncomfortable as he felt? “Oh, hello. I’m just doing a quick vital signs check and then I’ll let you gentlemen have a moment. They’ll be here to take him up to the operating room in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras answered. He sat in a plastic chair beside the stretcher, looking at the steadily beeping cardiac monitor, at the IV access taped into Grantaire’s arm, at the two bags of fluid whose names Enjolras didn’t understand that led into the IV by long tubes, at anything other than Grantaire’s face.

“They sent you in as the group messenger?”

Enjolras could tell from the tone that Grantaire was giving him that sardonic smile that seemed to say a hundred things Enjolras was never able to interpret. He looked up finally and found the expression he was expecting. The face that bore it, however, was unnaturally pale and wore oxygen tubing that hooked from nose to ears before disappearing into messy curls. The bright blue eyes swirled with anxiety. Enjolras’ mind unhelpfully supplied the opinion that Grantaire should never look like this. He deserved to look happy. Even on ordinary days, when he wasn’t about to be rushed to surgery, Grantaire didn’t look happy nearly often enough.

“I wanted a chance to thank you properly. You quite likely saved my life today, Grantaire, and though there aren’t words to convey that sort of gratitude, I needed to at least try.”

“Happy to be of service,” the other man replied, waving his hand dismissively, as if Enjolras was thanking him for buying a cup of coffee. Something in his easy attitude caused a vague pain in Enjolras’ chest. “You are alright, though, aren’t you?”

“I am. Because of you. Again, thank you.” He didn’t know what to say after that, so he simply went back to staring at the steady drip of the IV fluids. He wondered if he should go get one of the others, someone who could perhaps help ease the worry that was growing ever more pronounced on Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire derailed that plan by breaking the tense silence. “Hey Apollo? There’s something I want to tell you.” His voice was shaky, and Enjolras didn’t think it was from the pain. “You know, on the off chance that things go wrong in there. I want to say this. Okay?”

“No,” Enjolras replied firmly. Jehan would probably tell him he was once again being too harsh, but Enjolras was adamant that he would deny Grantaire the opportunity to say any sort of final words. First off, it was ridiculous. Grantaire would be absolutely fine. _(Oh dear god, please let him be fine.)_ And secondly, Grantaire was the type of person who would stay alive from a sheer desire to be obstinate. If he had something to say, he’d fight for the chance to say it. “This is not a goodbye, Grantaire. And you do not get to make any sort of last statement.”

“Too bad,” Grantaire declared, speaking in a sudden rush, as if he was forcing the words out before he lost the ability to say them. “I love you.”

_(Oh.)_

Enjolras’ heart sank. Suddenly, so many little things about this man, so many confusing actions and statements made perfect sense. Combeferre was right when he said that Enjolras was bad at reading people. Love? Really? He thought Grantaire thought he was a complete idiot, fighting for hopeless causes. But the bizarre compliments mixed in with the insults. The comparisons to gods and great leaders of the past. The staring that Grantaire so clearly hoped went unnoticed. It made sense. It was utterly bewildering and yet it made perfect sense.

“Dead silence,” Grantaire whispered. “Okay, fair enough, I’m sure you’re disgusted. The pathetic drunk cynic has the audacity to fall in love with his shining idol. Just call me Icarus, yeah?” He chuckled darkly. The sound made Enjolras feel sick. “Well, I said it. Look, you don’t have to sit in here. Just head on out, Apollo, and when I wake up after surgery, I promise I’ll pretend this never happened. Sorry for grossing you out.”

“No,” Enjolras finally managed. He should have cut Grantaire off earlier, shouldn’t have let the other man ramble on with such terrible self deprecating comments. But what was he supposed to say? How could he ever respond to that? How did he want to respond to it? He needed to think. He needed time to process the fact that an hour ago, he’d thought that Grantaire vaguely disliked him and hung around the group because of his friendship with the rest of them, and now Grantaire was being rushed to surgery after taking a bullet for him- for the man he loved.

But he didn’t have time. He had five minutes, at most, and while Enjolras was adroit at crafting powerful political arguments in moments, complete with historical precedents, he couldn’t possibly dissect his own feelings and come up with an appropriate response.

“No,” he repeated, this time with more conviction, though his mind was still desperately struggling to find the right words. “Of course I’m not disgusted, Grantaire, though I am rather shocked. So forgive me if I take a moment to respond.”

“You’re shocked? Seriously, Apollo, you’re- Gods, perhaps you are truly made of marble. Thick, oblivious marble. I’m appallingly obvious, no matter how hard I try to protect my dignity around you. Even strangers see it. Hell, anyone who’s ever seen my art sees it-”

“Well it’s not as if you ever show us that, do you?” It was a ridiculous and petty criticism, especially given the circumstances, but Enjolras hadn’t realized until he said it out loud how much it bothered him. The Friends of the ABC had formed a sort of family, supporting each other in their various ambitions. They often went to Jehan’s poetry readings as a group. Joly had used every one of them as practice patients at least once. When Enjolras had presented his undergraduate honors thesis in a closed setting, his friends had demanded he do the entire thing over again in Courfeyrac’s living room so they could all see it. Yet in all the years, Enjolras had never seen any of Grantaire’s work. Of course, he had seen some of his impressively well done sketches, hasty cartoons created to make the others laugh, and design work for their posters, but never any of his serious pieces.

“I’ve been in two curated shows and a gallery in the past year, Apollo,” Grantaire whispered. Suddenly, he appeared exhausted, the spark of energy that pain relief had seemed to breathe into him utterly extinguished. “The first time you didn’t come with the others, I thought maybe you were just one of those people who wants to experience art alone. But you never mentioned it to me, so I finally realized you just didn’t go at all. It’s not a big deal; you’d probably hate a lot of my stuff anyway. But that’s not fair to say that I don’t show you.”

Enjolras had sworn that he was a man of the people, that he would always do whatever it took to support the wellbeing of the people. Yet here was a person- someone he considered a friend- who he had apparently failed in countless ways without even knowing it. How could he have gotten this all so wrong? And why did it take Grantaire jumping in front of a gun for Enjolras to see it?

Again, these were questions that he needed time to analyze, and this was not the moment.

“Well I’d like to see it some time, if you’ll show me. But to get back to the point at hand, no. I hadn’t realized your feelings. As I said earlier, however, I refuse to acknowledge any sort of a last confession. If you want to discuss this with me, you can do so after you’ve woken from surgery. It’s something I most certainly think merits a proper conversation. After you’re discharged, perhaps we can meet at the Musain and discuss it over frozen hot chocolates.”

Grantaire’s ashen face suddenly colored a blotchy red. “Apollo? Did- did you just ask me out on a date to discuss my feelings for you?”

_(What? No. Wait, had he? Dear god...)_

Enjolras considered the possibility that he should forbid himself from talking outside of political speeches.

But he couldn’t take back the words he had just spoken and he certainly couldn’t turn Grantaire down moments before surgery and he honestly wasn’t sure if he wanted to turn him down or not. So for the moment, he simply answered, “Perhaps.”

“I... you’ve... well I suppose that’s one way to get me to finally shut up, oh Great Leader. I have no idea what to say to that.”

Enjolras didn’t either, but was saved from having to do so when a man in OR scrubs came to take Grantaire upstairs. Suddenly, he knew precisely the fear that Grantaire had felt when the EMS workers had forced them apart. He stood as far from the bed as he could, telling himself that the most important thing he could do was stay out of the way. He could feel from the set of his shoulders that he had slipped back into what Grantaire called his “marble statue mode”. It was the only way he could think of to prevent himself from leaping forward and grabbing Grantaire’s hand.

“I’ll see you in a bit, Apollo, yeah?” Grantaire called in a poor attempt at his usual jovial tone.

“Yes, of course.”

And then Enjolras was alone in the room, the beeping of the disconnected heart monitor swirling with his confused and guilt-ridden thoughts.

**——————————————————————-**

**Enjolras why???? This chapter actually made me angry to write. I write with a clear thought process and, like most writers, my goal is to make my writing make sense. That awful snare of emotions was so frustrating to get out. And while he could potentially have done a worse job than he did, that was... that was some pretty solid trainwreck, Apollo.**

**See y’all in roughly a week.**

**~Remy**


	4. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY! I figured out how to do notes!!
> 
> Wow. Okay. Graduating was sort of a bigger deal than anticipated. But now I have a Masters of Public Administration, with all As in my final semester, so I’m once again assuming Enjolras would forgive my tardiness with this chapter. Hopefully you, my dear readers, will be equally forgiving.
> 
> This is a short chapter, but I really didn’t want to get into the next scene in this part. The next chapter will be up in a few days, though. (Actually, this time. I promise.)
> 
> ~Remy

 

Once the Friends of the ABC were settled into the operating room’s family waiting area, Enjolras pulled out his laptop and got to work. Every social media platform was alight with the story of a peaceful student rally that had ended in gunfire. Reports from various sources ranged from speculative to blatantly wrong. University officials had apparently been trying to reach members of the Friends of the ABC via telephone and eMail. Requests for commentary from reporters filled their inboxes.

Enjolras sat apart from the rest of his friends, who had congregated in a small group and were offering each other what comfort and reassurance they could. When they had asked him about his conversation with Grantaire before they whisked him off to surgery, Enjolras has merely said that he had seemed as calm as one could be given the circumstances and that he had wished Grantaire luck on behalf of everyone. He knew from the looks that Combeferre and Courfeyrac gave him that they were well aware that more had gone on between the two men in the emergency room. But he focused intently on his laptop and refused to acknowledge them.

Enjolras called the university first. He gave them what information he had, apologized for the disaster that the rally had become, and hated himself for feeling incredibly grateful that for once, he and his friends weren’t in trouble with the school administration. He ignored all public posts on their social media pages, but sent brief private messages to some of their most passionate and most powerful supporters. When all that was done, he made himself a truly disgusting cup of tea from the small refreshments bar and began writing the Friends of the ABC’s official response to the day’s events.

At some point, a police detective came to question them. Due to the fact that they were friends of the day’s only shooting victim, they were allowed to give their statements at the hospital. Enjolras explained to the detective that he had seen absolutely nothing. When presented with photographs seized from local reporters, he could truthfully answer that he recalled seeing them amongst the hecklers, but it hadn’t occurred to him that they would turn out to be a physical threat. As soon as the detective left, Enjolras returned to his laptop.

Nearly three hours into the surgery, a patient representative came out to inform the group that everything was going well so far. If all went according to plan, Grantaire should be out of surgery and in the recovery area within two hours. Enjolras was grateful for the update, but continued writing as soon as the man retreated from the waiting area. He could feel his friends’ eyes on him, but what was it they wanted him to do? This needed to be written and there was nothing he or any of them could do for Grantaire at the moment.

It was Combeferre who finally came to sit beside him, bearing a cup of tea that was decidedly less awful than the one that had long gone cold in front of Enjolras. The leader of the activists was grateful that it was his quiet right hand man who had come to speak with him, rather than the passionate and lovable center of their group. Courfeyrac was wonderful, a vital third of the team that had formed in high school, determined to change the world and support each other along the way. But he engaged in interpersonal matters in a way that Enjolras had never understood, and in questions of emotions, Courfeyrac’s advice often confused him more than helped him. Still, even Combeferre was more than Enjolras thought he could bear at the moment.

“The surgery appears to be going well,” Combeferre prompted after it became clear to him that Enjolras had no intention of acknowledging him.

“It is good of the doctors to keep us informed,” Enjolras replied flatly, not looking up.

“Enjolras, stop. Put down whatever it is you’re working on and talk for a minute.”

“I’m writing our official statement in response to what happened. The public needs to hear from us.”

“The public can wait a moment,” Combeferre answered shortly, trying not to snap. He hated when Enjolras did this, closed himself off in his work so completely, but he knew that it was a defense mechanism and that Enjolras needed support, not a lecture. “What happened in the emergency room, Enjolras?”

“I wished Grantaire luck. And I thanked him, of course.”

“And what else? What’s going on in your head, Enjolras?” Combeferre urged.

“What on earth do you think is going on in my head?” Enjolras hissed, finally looking up. His eyes were full of anger, but not the anger that he usually showed when talking about injustice. No, this was the rage of helplessness and fear. This was Enjolras lost, and Combeferre could count on one hand the amount of times that he’d seen his best friend like this. “One of my men was just shot. Shot at what was supposed to be a peaceful event. He’s in surgery. And the bullet was meant for me. If anyone is to be hurt by our actions, it should only ever be me.”

“We all know the risks,” Combeferre interjected. “And this was in no way supposed to be dangerous. For god’s sake, Enjolras, it was a speech on a college campus. No one could have predicted that someone would shoot at us.”

“At me,” corrected Enjolras. “They shot at me. And the person they hit- Well of course Grantaire knows the risks. He tells us all the time that we’re going to get ourselves in over our heads. He’s told me that I’m going to get us all shot. But I didn’t get us all shot. Just him. Just the one man who shouldn’t have even been there!”

And this was why Combeferre hated it so much when Enjolras shut down. Eventually, he would have to let his feelings out, and he got swept away in them easily. He knew that Enjolras was only getting started on his tangent, and while it was good that he was expressing something, this was unproductive and often failed to provide Combeferre the opportunity to get at the root of the problem.

“He chose to be there just like the rest of us,” Combeferre said quietly. His calm voice had the desired effect; Enjolras took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer.

“But for all the wrong reasons. He doesn’t care about the work that we’re doing. He just- He shouldn’t have been there, Ferre! And he certainly shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“Enjolras. What happened in the emergency room? What aren’t you saying?”

Finally, Enjolras deflated. His posture slumped and he buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t shut away behind his marble walls and determination to fight for the cause. Nor was he burning with the fiery anger and roiling frustration of moments before. He was simply Matthieu Enjolras, second year law student, and Combeferre’s best friend. When Combeferre placed a hand on his back, Enjolras leaned into the touch.

“I can’t. I can’t talk about it right now. Not when he’s- I need to think about what he said, Ferre. I’m probably going to need to talk to you about it. And determine how I want to react. But I can’t do anything until I know where things stand.”

“You mean until you know he’s alright,” Combeferre clarified. In a classically Enjolras way, it made sense. He wouldn’t make a move on a political action until he had evaluated the opinions of all the major actors and deduced most likely outcomes. In matters of the heart, where he had far less experience, it made sense that he would want to be even more cautious. And Combeferre knew that this was indeed a matter of the heart.

Everyone knew that Grantaire was in love with Enjolras. The Friends of the ABC, strangers who attended their events, certainly anyone who had seen Grantaire’s art. It was common knowledge. But most people made wildly incorrect assumptions regarding Enjolras’ feelings for Grantaire. For all they knew their fearless leader, Combeferre felt that their friends sometimes didn’t realize how deep and complex Enjolras’ personal emotions could be. Of course, they knew that he loved them all. He had shown time and again that he was a loyal friend, that he would willingly put aside even his beloved cause for the needs of the people close to him. And yet no one ever considered that he counted Grantaire among that list of people.

Grantaire was a complex man who didn’t know how to pursue what he wanted in life. He was consumed by self doubt and he self medicated his undiagnosed depression and inability to cope with past trauma by drinking heavily. He believed in the inherent goodness of the political beliefs espoused by the Friends of the ABC, but was utterly sure of their inability to bring about meaningful change. Combeferre knew that Enjolras had no idea how to address any of those things, and so he was extremely frustrated by Grantaire.

But it certainly didn’t mean Enjolras didn’t like him.

Now, Grantaire was injured, and injured because he had been defending Enjolras. Clearly, they’d had words in the emergency room, likely about feelings, and Enjolras had no idea how to react. A part of Combeferre- the part that was tired of Enjolras ranting about Grantaire and how confusing he was, the part that had occasionally wished that Grantaire would one day get drunk enough that he tried to kiss their fearless leader, the part that was acutely aware of how well the two balanced each other even while they were at each other’s throats- wanted to point out to Enjolras that this situation wouldn’t be such an emotional crisis if he had had an actual conversation with Grantaire months if not years ago. Yet Combeferre had long accepted his role as the level headed member of their team, and it was his job to get Enjolras through this until Grantaire was alright and they could finally address the mess of emotions between them properly. _(Because Grantaire absolutely had to be alright.)_

“He’ll be fine, Enjolras. Then you can think this all through and then you absolutely have to talk to him. But I need to make sure you’re going to be alright until then.”

“I’m writing our public response to the attack,” Enjolras replied, his tone sliding back to calm professionalism.

“Alright,” Combeferre sighed. There was no sense in continuing to push his friend to talk; Enjolras had clearly decided that he couldn’t address this right now. At least Combeferre had a better understanding of Enjolras’ state of mind, of what he and Courfeyrac would be facing when they all finally left the hospital. “Drink your tea, yeah? It’ll help.”

Enjolras nodded and sipped at the cup, focusing his attention once again on his laptop. Combeferre took it as his cue to leave.

**————————————**

**Brief political point from the author. Originally Combeferre’s line was “This is America in 2018; no one could have predicted that someone would shoot at us.” And then I realized that that sentence is stupid and naïve. And that is what is wrong with America’s gun culture. That a constant low key expectation that you might get shot is completely rational.**

**Politics aside, there it is. Apologies for the brevity and lack of lovable cynic. He’ll be back next chapter.**

**~Remy**


	5. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wakes. Enjolras tries.

Minutes after Enjolras had finished writing the official public statement of the Friends of the ABC, the patient representative came back out to the waiting room to tell them the surgery was complete. The bullet was removed, the wound carefully closed, and Grantaire was in the recovery area. He was still unconscious, but that was normal. Once he was fully awake, his friends would be able to visit one or two at a time.

He was going to be alright. Enjolras hadn’t realized how tensely he’d been holding his body until it relaxed with the enormous sigh that escaped him. Grantaire was going to be alright.

Still, there was nothing Enjolras could do until the other man woke up, which Joly said could take an hour. He returned his focus to the public statement, which he was now posting on Facebook and Twitter, and sending to all the reporters who had reached out to them.

Once that was done, he allowed himself to finally feel relief. Grantaire was alright, and no matter what happened between them, Enjolras wanted him to be safe and happy. Of course, Enjolras told himself, the best way to ensure that was to tell Grantaire to stay away from them. The political climate in America was volatile, as today’s events had proven. Enjolras couldn’t bear the thought of Grantaire getting hurt for him again. But a part of Enjolras- perhaps that strange thing called a gut feeling that Courfeyrac often told him he shouldn’t be so quick to ignore- told him that Grantaire’s happiness hinged on being a part of their group, being surrounded by the Friends of the ABC, and apparently being near to Enjolras himself.

He was embarrassed to admit that Grantaire’s confession of love truly had surprised him. But as soon as he’d had it spelled out for him, it made perfect sense. And now, knowing that Grantaire was safe and taking the time to actually consider it, Enjolras could acknowledge to himself that he certainly wasn’t disgusted or upset or all the other ugly things Grantaire had feared his reaction would be. In fact, he felt pleasantly warm at the prospect.

He also felt terrified and a bit sad in a way that he couldn’t quite define.

Knowing that he couldn’t successfully dissect these feelings further without his two best friends, the quiet of his apartment, and a cup of tea, Enjolras moved to finally sit with the rest of the group. Courfeyrac immediately shifted over on the uncomfortable plastic sofa and gave Enjolras’ shoulder a brief squeeze.

After updating everyone on the public response to the shooting and reading out the statement that he had just released, Enjolras listened quietly to the idle chatter between his friends. It was comforting to see them all here, safe and united, after the day’s events. Of course, he knew that any sort of public political activity carried risks, but he honestly had never expected to be the target of physical violence for organizing a peaceful rally on a university campus.

“Friends of Vivien Grantaire?” a nurse’s voice broke through Enjolras’ thoughts. Everyone raised their hand or made some sort of noise of affirmation. The nurse smiled briefly as she realized the entire roomful of people were here for her patient. Enjolras let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; if she was smiling, she couldn’t be bringing them news that something had gone wrong. But her expression was once again businesslike a moment later and Enjolras couldn’t prevent the fear that bloomed in his chest.

“Is one of you named Apollo?” Courfeyrac snorted loudly, Jehan and Joly quite literally facepalmed, and Enjolras could feel his face turning bright red. He cleared his throat and stood.

“My name is Enjolras,” he answered the nurse. “But Grantaire has been known to call me Apollo on occasion.”

“Well, sir, I’d like to ask you to come back to the recovery area with me. Mr. Grantaire is having a bit of a difficult time coming out of the anesthesia. Post-operative delerium is not an unheard of phenomenon, and I assure you that your friend is in no danger, but he is extremely agitated. We gave him some medication to try to sedate him, but he’s still calling for “Apollo” and I thought if you were here, you may be able to calm him down.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Enjolras replied, determined not to meet his friends’ eyes and forcing down the panic building in his throat. In the entire time he had known Grantaire, Enjolras was sure that he had only ever agitated him. The idea that his presence would be calming seemed absurd.

_(But he loves you,)_ Enjolras reminded himself, the concept still strange. _(He loves you and he’s frightened. You can do this.)_ Enjolras prayed that he could do this.

As soon as the nurse led him through the double doors to the post-operative care unit, Enjolras heard sounds of a commotion. He was still four rooms away from his destination when he realized that what he was hearing was Grantaire.

A nurse was kneeling on Grantaire’s bed, holding him steady, though it seemed that whatever fight he had been putting up had completely drained out of him. He was lying on his side, his hands pulling desperately at his tangled curls, sobbing, “Apollo, please! Don’t you dare touch him. If you hurt him- Where is he? Apollo, gods no, please, Apollo...” At the foot of the bed, two security guards stood with restraints in their hands.

Enjolras rounded on them immediately, determined to protect Grantaire from any further aggression. “This man is suffering from the emotional trauma of being involved in a shooting. If you dare attempt to restrain him, I assure you that I-”

“Mr. Enjolras,” the nurse who had come out to the waiting room interrupted sternly. “Believe me, we do not want to restrain your friend. But he just had surgery and is at risk of harming himself. He also tried to get in a few good punches at staff earlier. If we have to restrain him for everyone’s safety, we will. However, I brought you back here in an attempt to prevent that.”

“Right,” Enjolras replied softly after a moment, thoroughly chastised. Grantaire would mock him for that, for letting righteous fury distract him from the task at hand. Like so many of Grantaire’s criticisms, Enjolras would be forced to admit he had a point.

Enjolras stood beside the bed, facing Grantaire, not daring to lower the side rail in case the disoriented man began struggling again. “R?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, quiet and unsure. “Grantaire? Please stop. Don’t be upset, R. You’re-”

“Apollo!” Grantaire screamed, shoving backwards against the nurse on the bed, who tightened her hold. For a moment, Enjolras was frozen, stunned into silence. Then instinct took over.

“Grantaire, stop.” It was delivered in the famous tone that his friends knew left no room for argument. That specific command was used all too often, when Grantaire had pushed too far with his criticisms or was disrupting work that absolutely needed to be done immediately or had surpassed the amount of alcohol he could consume without risking a trip to the hospital.

Grantaire stilled immediately.

“Look at me, R.” Grantaire looked up, lowering shaking hands and lifting his tear soaked face. Enjolras’ heart twisted painfully at the sight and he was seized with the sudden urge to pull him into a hug. “I’m right here. No one is hurting me and I’m perfectly safe, I assure you. But I need you to stop fighting.”

“They shot you. They’re holding me down and I can’t get to you and they shot you, Apollo, I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to apologize,” interjected Enjolras. “We’re both safe, as is everyone else. The only person holding you is a nurse, and she’s doing so because we were concerned you were going to injure yourself. Now, I can ask her to let go, but you’ve got to promise me you won’t move, alright?”

“Anything you ask,” Grantaire replied without hesitation. Enjolras felt vaguely sick at the blind faith this broken man placed in him; he’d certainly done nothing to deserve it.

“Alright, then. Just stay still. She’s going to let you go now.” Enjolras looked up at the nurse with her arms around Grantaire, silently begging her to go along with his plan. The nurse nodded and slowly lowered Grantaire onto the mattress, sliding off the bed and pulling up the side rail. She left the room silently, ushering the security guards out with her. The nurse who had brought Enjolras into the room remained, observing from a distance in case Enjolras needed help. “You see, R? No one’s holding you now. You’re safe.”

Grantaire nodded, trying desperately to agree with Enjolras, though he clearly had no idea what was going on. He was still crying, shaking with fear, glancing over Enjolras’ shoulder to ensure no one was coming to hurt them. Enjolras sighed. His commanding tone had earned Grantaire’s compliance but had done nothing to comfort him.

“Grantaire, hush,” Enjolras urged in a softer tone. He lowered the side rail and sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing Grantaire’s sweat soaked curls off his face. “I promise you nothing will happen to us here. We’re in the hospital. Everything is alright.”

“Hospital?” Grantaire tensed again, but Enjolras rested a hand on his shoulder, keeping him still, while untangling the other hand from his hair and lacing it with Grantaire’s trembling fingers. “What did they do to you? Who did they shoot?”

“We’re all fine, R,” Enjolras was struggling to keep up the gentle tone in his voice. This was frustrating and heartbreaking and he felt absolutely helpless. “You got hurt, which is why we’re here, but the doctors fixed you up and you’re as good as new.”

“So, complete trash, then,” Grantaire mumbled. Even with his mind clouded by anesthesia and panic, he still had self-deprecating comments on the tip of his tongue. How could Enjolras not have noticed this? How could he not have seen that of all Grantaire’s dismal beliefs, his most complete lack of faith was in himself?

“Shut up, Winecask,” Enjolras murmured, the familiar insult now uttered in a gentle tone, his hand sliding from Grantaire’s shoulder back into his tangled hair. “What you did today was heroic. We’re all incredibly proud of you. And grateful.”

Tears once again sprang up in Grantaire’s eyes, this time combined with a weak smile fueled by a childlike hopefulness. “You are?”

“Of course. Now get some rest, R. You’ve just gone through an exhausting ordeal and your body needs time to recover.”

Grantaire nodded and curled deeper into the thin blanket. He retained his tight grip on Enjolras’ hand. After several long minutes, he spoke, his voice soft with impending sleep. “Enjolras? Will you stay here? Please?”

“Yes, of course. Sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Once he was sure Grantaire was asleep, Enjolras withdrew his hand from Grantaire’s hair. He pulled out his phone and texted Combeferre with an update to read out to the rest of the group. He then caught up on the world news of the day and answered a few eMails, all with his left hand, as his right was still firmly clutched in Grantaire’s.

After nearly two hours, Grantaire woke. He blinked up at Enjolras with bleary eyes, clearly confused, but much more lucid that the screaming mess he’d been earlier.

“Enjolras?” His voice was little more than a rough whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Apollo, where are we?”

“The hospital.”

That was all the prompting Grantaire needed for the day’s events to come flooding back to him. Enjolras waited, giving Grantaire a moment to process everything, surprised by the sudden urge he had to pull the other man closer and tell him that everything was alright.

“I’m out of surgery then?” Grantaire finally asked.

“Yes. The bullet is out and you’re going to be just fine.”

Grantaire nodded. “And you? Why are you in the recovery area with me? I thought they don’t usually let visitors come back here.”

“You were... agitated when you woke,” Enjolras answered carefully. He was glad Grantaire didn’t remember being so terrified. “You were concerned about my safety and the nurse very kindly brought me back here to show you I was alright.”

Grantaire blushed, obviously embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“You always mean to cause trouble,” replied Enjolras easily, a gentle smirk on his face. Grantaire smiled, now blushing for a very different reason. Once again, Enjolras realized how poorly he had handled every interaction he’d had with this man. He often teased his friends with gentle sarcastic remarks. It was only with Grantaire that the lines were delivered with coldness, tailored as insults instead of expressions of affection. But Enjolras was sure that he could do better. The warm look on Grantaire’s face showed him he was already off to a decent start.

“Honestly, R, it wasn’t a problem. I’m just relieved that you’re alright.”

Grantaire looked down, apparently unable to hold Enjolras’ gaze any longer. It was only then that he realized they were holding hands. “Oh shit,” he swore, pulling away. “I’m sorry, Enjolras. I must’ve grabbed onto you when I was sleeping. Damn, I’m sorry.”

“Grantaire, stop,” Enjolras urged gently, though he did allow Grantaire to pull his hand away. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. You were shot today, shot at a rally where there absolutely should not have been any sort of violence. If anything, I should be apologizing for organizing an event without being properly mindful of the risks of violent backlash.”

Immediately, Grantaire looked up, eyes hardened and voice stern in a way Enjolras had never before witnessed. “Hey, no. Apollo, don’t for a second blame yourself for any of this. And don’t let the crazy asshats who did this stop you from fighting for what you believe in.”

“Oh, I most certainly will not,” Enjolras assured him. “I’m going to be on the local news tomorrow morning to discuss today’s events. And we’re probably doing another rally next week. But this time, we’re going to have security present. Also,” he added, determined to make Grantaire smile again, “did you just remind me of the importance of leading protests and fighting for my beliefs? Are you sure that anesthesia didn’t affect your mind?”

The smile he received was the warmest that Grantaire had ever directed at him, and Enjolras considered that it might be the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Lopsided and crooked and- when the hell had Grantaire chipped two of his bottom teeth?- but absolutely breathtaking. “Well, I’m not saying that your protests are going to actually do anything. But it’s sort of who you are. And a racist bully with a gun doesn’t get to change that.” His expression grew more serious as he added, “But today was actually really great. I don’t know where things stand now, but before it all went to hell, I was thinking that at the very least, you were going to get some sort of policy change from the university out of it.”

“We certainly will,” Enjolras replied. “The university president has already been in touch. And actually, everything going to hell only highlighted how important it is for schools to protect these students.”

“Good. And everyone else is okay, yeah? I mean, I’m pretty sure Joly would have told me the sky was magenta if it had kept me calm until the ambulance got there.”

“Yes. You were the only one injured. And again, R, I can never thank you enough for what you did today.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Grantaire mumbled, blushing yet again. “You’re safe. That’s the important thing.”

Enjolras wanted to scream at Grantaire that he, too, was important until he believed it. Or better yet, organize a public protest condemning every person who had ever made him feel as though he wasn’t important. A sick feeling twisted in Enjolras’ gut as he remembered that he would be one of the main targets of that protest. Instead, he simply said, “We’re all safe,” and stood from the edge of the bed.

“Now, there’s a waiting room full of people who are incredibly worried and eager to see you, and I’ve had you all to myself for much too long. I’m going to step out and let them come in, alright?”

“Sounds like a plan. Get back to leading the revolution, Apollo. I’ll be back to derailing your monologues and pissing you off again soon enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better, Enjolras! Awkward and clumsy, but better.
> 
> Note from the nurse: Post anesthesia looks different for everyone, but I once vividly hallucinated being tortured and woke up afraid to let my doctor in the room, so... stuff happens.
> 
> Also, more healthcare providers should be as cool as R’s nurse who, instead of medically treating the patient, just goes and gets his cute friend to hug it all better. (In all seriousness, this likely wouldn’t happen because patient safety, but it probably should. Creative problem solving and compassionate healthcare for the win.)
> 
> *Climbs off my soapbox*
> 
> Thanks for reading! More to come soon.


	6. Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras gets by with a little help from his friends- and tries to be a friend to Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so incredibly long and I have no excuse. My apologies.

“And prior to him saying it tonight, you honestly had no idea that Grantaire had feelings for you?” Courfeyrac asked.

Again.

Enjolras sighed, burrowing deeper into the couch in the living room of the apartment he and Combeferre shared. They’d gone home from the hospital several hours ago, once Grantaire was out of the post-surgical recovery area and settled into a regular hospital room. Courfeyrac had accompanied them and they’d sat together drinking cups of Combeferre’s best oolong tea, listening to Enjolras describe his recent interactions with their cynical and utterly bewildering friend.

But of course, Combeferre and Courfeyrac hadn’t seemed bewildered at all. At least, not about Grantaire’s heroic action or confession of love or distressingly self deprecating comments. Where they- or Courfeyrac at least- seemed to be stuck was Enjolras’ apparent obliviousness.

“No. For the fifth time, Courf, I had no idea. I mean, honestly. All he ever does is interrupt me and call me stupid.”

“God, E, really? Look, I know he confuses and frustrates the hell out of you. But we all thought you knew. We thought that you knew and that it made you uncomfortable, so you never mentioned it.”

“And that’s not all he does,” Combeferre interjected. He’d remained silent for much of the conversation thus far. Enjolras was eager to hear his input; surely the ever level-headed Combeferre would help him make sense of the swirling thoughts and emotions in his head. “He interrupts you and strengthens your arguments. He calls you stupid and also beautiful and radiant and inspiring. He tells you your fight for change is never going to get anywhere and then goes out of his way to help you in whatever way he can.”

“Well yes, of course,” Enjolras conceded immediately. He knew all these things about Grantaire, of course he did. “But that doesn’t mean he likes me.”

As soon as he said it out loud, Enjolras knew how stupid it sounded. Grantaire had, indeed, demonstrated that he considered Enjolras a friend. Still, the two men had never been friendly, and Enjolras was positive that that wasn’t exclusively his fault.

“Say it badly,” Combeferre prompted after a long moment of silence. “You’re getting caught up in the thoughts in your head. We can’t help you with them if we can’t hear them.”

The three of them had developed this problem solving technique in high school, when they realized that they each had a propensity to get lost in too many thoughts at once. For Combeferre, it was endless hypotheses, things he needed to further explore before he built on them to get to the next step of his reasoning. Courfeyrac was more of a whirlwind, a thousand thoughts spinning in a dozen directions. Enjolras’ mind was a torrent of possibilities. Ways to tackle a social issue, arguments that could be used to form a convincing platform, interpretations of the intentions of others and how Enjolras should strategically respond. As a team, the three could solve any problem that they came across, but it had to be brought out in the open for them all to access it.

And so Courfeyrac had declared one day that he was simply going to “word vomit” his thoughts and let his friends string them together in the most coherent way. Combeferre had refined the practice into what they now called “saying it badly”, getting all the confusing and contradictory thoughts, emotions, and ideas out so that their dynamic trio could make them make sense.

For a man who prided himself on crafting perfect words and always knowing the best way to engage with, convince, and inspire people, the concept should have been frightening to Enjolras. It was a testament to how deeply he trusted his friends that he felt comfortable “saying it badly” to them without reservation.

Now, however, he hesitated. This time, he was sure that his words were more than just messy. They were stupid. Before they even made it past his lips, he was sure of their idiocy, just as his comment moments before about Grantaire not liking him had been. Finally, he muttered, “It’s embarrassing.”

“So?” Courfeyrac prompted. “Remember that time we were all eating out of the same ice cream carton and I got really excited that we were all experiencing the same tastes? And then Combeferre tried to develop an empirical experiment to evaluate whether we all experience taste the same way? Like, what if the taste that I identify as strawberries is the taste that you identify as anchovies?”

“Tasteception,” Enjolras replied with a soft smile. “Believe me, I will always remember that.”

“And that was embarrassing,” Courfeyrac concluded. “But you didn’t judge us. Well, you kind of judged Ferre when he actually tried to do the experiments, but you get my point.”

This was absolutely nothing like Tasteception. This was real and scary and Enjolras was completely out of his depth. But Courfeyrac’s point rang out clearly: they would be there to walk him through it.

“Grantaire is different with me. He always has been. I see the way he acts towards the rest of you. He and Jehan have amazing discussions about art. He boxes and gets drinks with Bahorel. He has inside jokes with everyone. Except me. With me it’s always mocking or disruptive or just plain rude. And I can’t figure it out. But the part that’s so infuriating is that I want to. I really want him to like me. I don’t care about what people think of me, except in the sense of branding a message or appearing competent at what I do. If he’s just some annoying person who disrupts our meetings, I shouldn’t care what he thinks. But I do care and he’s certainly more than that. I can’t figure out what he is, though.”

Combeferre held up a hand when Enjolras paused to take a breath. “Let’s take this piece by piece,” he suggested. “I have a bit of insight into that first part before you get on to your next points.” Enjolras nodded his agreement, and Combeferre continued. “The bit about him acting differently can easily be said about you as well. You’re an intensely focused person, Enjolras, with a demanding work ethic, but you aren’t typically harsh to others. With Grantaire, you are. I know he makes a lot of terrible choices, but if any of our other friends did those things, your comments to them about it would come from a place of concern, not of disapproval.”

“I am concerned about him,” Enjolras objected. But he knew exactly what Combeferre meant. “And disapproving too, I know. No, I know you’re right. I heard it myself today when I was trying to talk to him in a friendly manner. It was hard- hard in a way I don’t understand. Because of course he hadn’t done anything wrong and we weren’t arguing. But I just feel so... thrown when I talk to him.”

“And I’m sure his declaration from earlier threw you even more,” prompted Combeferre.

“It did. I mean, he’s made enough comments about my appearance for me to know he thinks I’m attractive. But that’s got nothing to do with feelings. And maybe I’m the one reading too much into it? Maybe he just meant that he’s really really into me? Which, by the way, is disgusting and-”

“Nope,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “That’s not fair, Enjolras, and you know it. He literally bought you a t-shirt for Christmas a few years ago that said ‘There’s an ace up my sleeve. It’s me. I’m the ace.’ And I know you remember that because you wear it as a sleep shirt.”

“It’s a great shirt,” Enjolras answered reflexively. “So he actually meant something more substantial when he made that comment today?”

“You know he did,” Combeferre stated. This was one of those frustrating things about Combeferre being able to read him so well. Sometimes he talked Enjolras to conclusions he’d already reached but hadn’t managed to articulate yet. “I believe you when you say you didn’t know before he said it, but you’re wrong to say you had no idea. An outside perspective on this that I think you really need to hear- whatever dance you two are doing, you’re both active participants. And it’s difficult for your friends to watch because you’re both hurting yourselves and each other. It shouldn’t have taken a gunshot to get us to this conversation.”

That was as close as Combeferre ever came to a reprimand. It was never a direct calling out, simply a statement of facts. Enjolras realized the brilliance of this years before they’d even reached college; you can’t argue with a factual statement.

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“A really great start would be if you stopped trying to convince yourself that you hate each other,” suggested Courfeyrac.

Combeferre nodded in agreement. “And once you manage to do that, evaluate your actual opinion of him, and try to engage with him the way you do with the rest of us.”

“That seems reasonable,” Enjolras conceded. He unfolded himself from the couch, stretching muscles that were sore from uncomfortable hospital chairs, worry, and sheer exhaustion. “Thank you both for talking me through this. I know today was horrible and listening to my emotional crisis only made it longer.”

“Hush,” Courfeyrac ordered. “Come on, E, this is what we do. But I am crashing on your couch tonight, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Cool. Want to watch something to unwind for a bit?” Courfeyrac was already flipping through Netflix as he asked.

“There’s that documentary on marine mammal communication that I told you about,” Combeferre suggested.

“You two enjoy it,” Enjolras told them, pouring himself another cup of tea. “I’m going to go check the news a bit.”

They agreed and bade him goodnight, allowing him to retreat to his room. They both knew that their friend needed space to process the conversation they had just had.

————————————————————-

As the documentary was drawing to a close ninety minutes later, Enjolras returned to the living room, a determined look on his face. Combeferre paused the television at once and both he and Courfeyrac turned their attention fully to Enjolras.

“There’s absolutely no reason for the animosity between myself and Grantaire,” he stated firmly. “I want to be his friend and he obviously wants a positive relationship with me. But at this point we’ve built everything up to be a battle between us. He made it abundantly clear today that he doesn’t dislike me, so now it’s my turn to at least treat him the same way I treat our other friends.”

“A reasonable conclusion,” Combeferre answered. Courfeyrac looked as though he were about to add something, but Combeferre nudged him softly with his foot and he remained silent.

“I’m going to call him and check in,” Enjolras continued. “He has his phone with him and if it were anyone else that had been seriously injured at one of our events, I’d want to be updated on their wellbeing.”

“He’d like that,” stated Courfeyrac. “Just... even if he does that thing where he deliberately tries to get under your skin, don’t yell at him, okay?”

Enjolras wanted to be affronted, but he knew Courfeyrac had a point. “I won’t,” he promised.

——————————————————

On the third ring, Enjolras realized that there was a more than slight chance that Grantaire was asleep. It was drawing close to midnight and to say that Grantaire had had an exhausting day would be an understatement in the extreme. He was just about to hang up when Grantaire answered with a slightly slurred, “Apollo? Whassup?”

“I woke you,” Enjolras stated flatly, feeling terrible. He had been trying to do the right thing by checking on Grantaire, and had only managed to disturb him from his much needed rest.

“No, I wasn’t asleep,” Grantaire assured him, clearing his throat. “Sorry if I sound out of it. They gave me what Joly says is a pretty large dose of morphine so I’m kind of... I don’t know. Fuzzy? It doesn’t feel like being drunk but it also sort of does.”

“I should let you rest, then.”

“No,” Grantaire insisted. “You called for a reason. What did you need, Enjolras?”

“I don’t need anything. I was just calling to see how you’re feeling.”

“Oh.” The genuine surprise in Grantaire’s tone was obvious, causing another flood of guilt to wash over Enjolras. They truly had done an impressive job of convincing each other of their mutual disdain. “I’m fine. Sore and just... dull? I’m assuming that’s the morphine. But I read the official statement you posted on the Friends of the ABC social media pages. It looks great.”

“Thank you. I’ll be on the local news tomorrow morning as well.”

“I’ll be sure to tune in. Mustn’t miss an opportunity to hear our great leader speak to the masses.” For the first time, Enjolras could clearly hear the fondness in Grantaire’s mocking tone. He wondered briefly if it had always been there, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s reaction- or lack thereof- to Grantaire’s earlier confession seemed proof that it had.

“I’m sure you’ll text me your biting commentary as soon as the cameras have stopped rolling.”

Grantaire chuckled, making no effort to deny that he would do precisely as Enjolras assumed he would.

As he listened to the warm sound of Grantaire’s sleepy laughter, Enjolras felt an uncomfortable tug somewhere near his navel. Grantaire had begun speaking again, offering commentary about the official statement, but Enjolras was caught up in his own thoughts. That tugging feeling was want, he knew. He wanted this, this easy conversation with the man who was so often his adversary. And Grantaire wanted it too. Based on his statement in the emergency room, Grantaire wanted considerably more than that.

Enjolras was afraid. He had participated in protests that turned into riots, gave incendiary speeches to huge crowds, faced down police officers who were getting too aggressive in their handling of protesters. But opening himself up to someone who wasn’t Combeferre or Courfeyrac, giving a man who confused him in a thousand different ways a chance to come near his heart, was terrifying in ways that he had never before experienced.

At the age of fifteen, Enjolras had been briefly suspended from high school for organizing a protest against the school’s use of a company that relied on child labor in sweatshops to make jerseys for their football team. The experience had taught him that there were very real risks and consequences associated with fighting for one’s beliefs. He had lived his life determined to never let the fear of those risks stand in the way of acting in the way he knew was right.

If he tried to apply this logic to the social situation now before him, it was clear that he could not shy away from whatever it was that had always existed between himself and Grantaire.

“R.” Grantaire fell silent at once. “I wanted to talk to you about our conversation in the emergency room earlier.” He paused, searching for the right words to continue. _(Why were the right words always so hard to find around Grantaire?)_

Grantaire leapt to into the silence immediately with a hurried, “Please, Apollo, let’s just forget it.”

“I don’t want to forget it,” Enjolras replied. “I very much want to discuss it with you, and discuss the dynamics between us. Certainly not tonight; it’s been far too long of a day. But I wanted you to know that it’s very much on my mind.”

“I’m sorry for that,” answered Grantaire softly. His voice sounded strangely tight, but he pushed on. “I didn’t mean to make you have to deal with my drama-”

“Well, technically it’s our drama,” interjected Enjolras. “Since it’s about both of us. And I believe there was mention of us dealing with it at the Musain, assisted by frozen hot chocolates?”

“Stop it!” Grantaire exclaimed, suddenly near shouting. “Yes, oh Great Apollo, I know you’re as cold as a marble statue, but that doesn’t mean you have to be deliberately cruel. You’re so honorable, so good, but sometimes you’re just horrid. A decent person would have just let it go. I was scared. I was about to go into surgery. I was in pain. And I said some things I shouldn’t have, I know. I’m sorry, alright?” His voice cracked, and Enjolras realized that he was crying. Had probably been crying since he’d asked Enjolras to drop the subject. “I’m sorry for saying it and I’m so sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I’m just sorry, alright?”

“No, not alright. Grantaire, please, I’m the one who’s sorry. I wasn’t trying to be cruel.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up. Especially not the meeting at the Musain bit. Gods, I know you were just trying to placate me. I knew it when you said it. And when I asked if you were asking me out, I was teasing. Just like I always do. Please, Enjolras, just drop it.” Grantaire’s voice trailed off into a miserable sniffle. Enjolras felt his own emotions threatening to choke him, but he forced himself to speak with a steady voice.

“You always tell me that I don’t know how to let a topic drop.”

“Well you don’t,” the weak smile was audible even through Grantaire’s obvious anguish. “But please, just this once, I’m begging you to.”

Every fibre of Enjolras’ heart and mind shouted at him to protest. The purpose of this call had been to begin to build a better relationship with Grantaire, to make him feel better as he lay in a hospital bed that should have been Enjolras’. All he had managed to do was make him cry. He wanted to insist that he hadn’t been mocking their earlier conversation or Grantaire’s feelings. That Grantaire had absolutely no reason to apoliogize. That he was incredibly serious about discussing this over sugary drinks. But he knew that there would be no convincing Grantaire of his intentions tonight. Anything he said would only serve to upset Grantaire further.

“Alright. I’ve kept you too long anyway. It’s past midnight and you need rest.”

“So do you. You’ve got to look your shining golden best for the morning news tomorrow. Goodnight, Apollo.” Grantaire disconnected the line before Enjolras had a chance to reply.

Enjolras didn’t go back out to the living room. He couldn’t bare to tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac that he had somehow managed to make things worse and had hurt Grantaire yet again.

Instead, he switched off his light and climbed into bed, lying in the darkness for a long time and thinking of ways to break through the years of misunderstanding between himself and Grantaire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I’m sorry this took months to get up. And for all that waiting, I don’t really love it? The conversation between the triumvirate was hard and seems oddly stilted to me? But I also honestly think it’s an accurate representation of what talking Enjolras through matters of emotion would be like. 
> 
> Further notes:
> 
> *I firmly believe that Enjolras is asexual or at most gray-ace. This does not mean he’s aromantic. And yes, that is a real t-shirt that you can buy. (Thanks, Pinterest!)
> 
> *The Tasteception thing actually happened to me. I was Enjolras in that situation, staring in confusion (and actually bugging out a little when I thought about it.)


	7. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras goes on the morning news and says some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the prologue, we have only been hearing from Enjolras’ point of view. I thought it was high time we let our friendly neighborhood cynic have another turn at the wheel.
> 
> This chapter is being brought to you from Paris, France, home of the great Victor Hugo. I thought it was important to upload a piece of this story while I was here, so here it is.

After hanging up the phone, Grantaire managed to hold himself in check for under fifteen seconds before he dissolved completely into tears. He had humiliated himself today, and Enjolras would never look at him the same way. For years, he was determined to never voice to Enjolras how much he meant to him. He made it obvious in a thousand little ways, some that were deliberate bids for attention and some that were embarrassing signs that he couldn’t manage to conceal. (Like the way that his hazy mind had apparently instructed him to hold Enjolras’ hand after waking up from surgery. That had certainly not been one of his finer moments of the day.) But somehow, through all of that, Enjolras hadn’t realized. And Grantaire just had to open his stupid ugly crooked mouth and directly tell him.

Idiot.

Of course, Enjolras wouldn’t just be able to let it pass. Grantaire knew that his avenging Apollo always spoke out against things that were wrong. And this was, without a doubt, wrong. That a drunken wastrel would have the audacity to express affection towards a man so clearly above him in every regard.

He’d been kind about it in the emergency room, which of course he had been, because Grantaire was about to go into surgery and Enjolras was a decent person. But he’d called tonight to discuss it. Not to argue, because no matter how angry he was, he would still be mindful of the fact that Grantaire was injured. Still, he’d called to make sure that Grantaire knew how unacceptable his words had been, how unwanted his advances were.

Grantaire wished Enjolras had left out the snide comment about meeting for drinks at the Musain. That was one thing about his beloved idol that always stung. No matter how furious Enjolras was, he was always civil to people. In the back room of the Musain, he railed against the cruel oppressors of the world- the racists, the exploiters, the abusers- but in public, he unfailingly took the moral high ground, as if every word he said could one day be used for or against him on a campaign trail. His motives, though, were far less shallow. Enjolras truly believed in respecting his opponent, in using civility as a weapon to expose the ugliness in others. Except in the case of Grantaire. With the Friends of the ABC’s resident cynic, he clearly had no such qualms, and often insulted the man right to his face. Of course, Grantaire gave as good as he got, but he still felt as though it was an unfair fight, since his barbs rolled right off of Enjolras whereas Enjolras’s latched painfully in his mind for days if not longer.

Now, he had embarrassed himself completely in front of Enjolras, and Enjolras was apparently not going to let it go. A sharp pain that had nothing to do with his injuries bloomed in his chest and for an instant, Grantaire wondered if it would have been better if the bullet had hit him several inches to the left.

A nurse came in to check his vital signs every few hours throughout the night, but Grantaire wasn’t sleeping much anyway. He drifted in and out of a twilight where memories of gunfire and Enjolras’ surprisingly gentle touch mixed together to form horrifying visions of blood spattered marble and fallen gods.

At 8:45am, he opened the app for the local news station on his tablet and pulled up their live feed. Enjolras was scheduled to appear around 9, and Grantaire wasn’t going to miss a moment of it. Even though the increased coverage of their event was due to violence that had landed him in the hospital, Grantaire couldn’t help but be happy for the man he adored. Having a venue as far-reaching as a news network giving him an opportunity to speak was an amazing achievement for Enjolras.

He looked stunning on camera, of course. Grantaire pretended to ignore his cardiac monitor beeping just a bit faster as Enjolras took his seat on the studio couch, wearing perfectly tailored black trousers and vest and a light blue shirt that Grantaire was certain Courfeyrac selected for him. His perfect polite smile seemed made to be admired by as wide an audience as possible and for a brief, foolish moment, Grantaire felt his own ugliness even more painfully.

Then, Enjolras began talking and Grantaire’s petty personal concerns melted away. He watched every word, every inflection, and every gesture carefully, as he always did. He catalogued in his mind the bits that stuck out as exceptionally good and jotted down notes on the things that needed improvement. Later, he would use his signature mocking tone and an excessive amount of obscure references to present that feedback to Enjolras.

It was a rhythm they had fallen into years ago, a system they both understood though had never formally discussed. In the early days of Grantaire’s attendance at meetings of the Friends of the ABC, his cynical interruptions would lead him and Enjolras to screaming arguments at least once a week. Grantaire knew that it was only the words of some of the others, who had seen more easily the desire to be proven wrong lurking under his doubt, that had allowed him to remain at the meetings at all.

Over time, however, Enjolras learned that his discussions with Grantaire- when conducted as debates, not as arguments- helped to make his statements clearer and stronger. Grantaire, in turn, learned that he had a very unique skill set that could be utilized to help the man he so idolized. And so he became the unofficial Communications Director of the Friends of the ABC, or at least of its leader.

Now, Grantaire watched as Enjolras discussed the group’s intentions behind the rally and the changes they hoped the university would make regarding non-citizen students. He noted down the points in Enjolras’ discussion on gun violence that became muddied by his distress over shots being fired at an event he had organized. He smiled with pride at the steady tone with which Enjolras assured the audience that a hate-filled domestic terrorist would do nothing to suppress the work of the Friends of the ABC.

“We’re almost out of time here, Mr. Enjolras,” stated the newscaster, and Grantaire noticed her change in tone immediately. For the first time, she seemed cautious, as if she wasn’t sure what Enjolras’ reaction to her questions would be. “But before we go, I wanted to ask you about the person who was shot yesterday.” Grantaire froze. Refusing Enjolras’ offer to talk over drinks had been the biggest mistake of his life. Now, Enjolras would tell him exactly where he could go shove his idiotic crush, and would do so on live television. “Of course you know that his name hasn’t been released to us. But we know he’s a student at the university and that he’s in stable condition. Can you tell us a little more?” But no. Enjolras wouldn’t do that, would he? Whatever disdain he felt for Grantaire, he wouldn’t possibly be so cruel. “He was obviously very near the stage when the assault started, so is it safe for us to assume he’s a member of your organization?”

“He is,” Enjolras answered without hesitation. Grantaire felt physically sick at the rush of relief that surged through him. Enjolras hadn’t publicly renounced him. This nightmare of a line of questioning wasn’t over yet, but he at least had that. “He actually saw what was happening before anyone else did and was trying to warn us. Without his quick thinking, a lot more people could have gotten hurt.”

And that was... that was a compliment, Grantaire was sure of it. Enjolras had complimented his quick thinking, and even managed to do it in such a way that Grantaire didn’t look as much like the love-sick lapdog who jumped blindly into danger as he had been in reality.

“I would imagine he’s a key member of your team,” the newscaster pressed. And oh. She knew. It was clear in her tone that she knew from Grantaire’s actions exactly why he’d jumped onto that stage, and she was going to play it for the cameras. A human interest angle on the story, was how she’d probably justify it. But oh god, this was going to be terrible. And public. And recorded on Combeferre’s TiVo. “A true devoted activist.”

“A key member, yes,” Enjolras answered. “Activist? Not as much as you’d imagine.” And then Enjolras’ expression changed into something Grantaire couldn’t quite place. He thought he’d done a good job over the years of cataloguing the many expressions of the face he loved so dearly, but this was unknown to him. Grantaire tried to break down the components. Focus, like when he was explaining a complex statistical point. Determination, like when he was listing their demands to a school administrator or city council person. Perhaps... anxiety? Like the time Jehan had been pushed to the ground at a rally and needed x-rays of their wrist. And something else that was entirely unrecognizable.

His tone, however, Grantaire knew. This was an on-script Enjolras. This was the tone that caused Grantaire to shout, “Where’s that fire from Apollo’s sun?” It didn’t mean that Enjolras was unsure of his point- Enjolras never said things that he wasn’t 100% sure he meant. But it meant he wasn’t confident enough in his ability to clearly articulate his ideas. He had written it out clearly, memorized his words, and was ready to speak them to the world, but didn’t feel that he was well prepared enough yet to speak extemporaneously on the topic.

In that carefully measured tone, Enjolras answered the newscaster. “He has many of the same dreams of a just society that we do. But like yesterday, there’s always an oppressor. A man at a rally with a gun. A corrupt police force that protects their own. An entire government system that is built on the backs of the people it’s supposed to protect. And he... he sees that all the time. I do too, of course. Sometimes I worry he thinks I can’t see what a hard road we have ahead, but I do. I just believe that the appropriate response is to fight it. He doesn’t see the world that way. He isn’t always hopeful that we can make a meaningful impact.”

“But this is a man who has more meaningful impact that anyone I’ve ever met. He tells me that we can’t end the school-to-prison pipeline by promoting diversion programs. But he volunteers at an after school program so that kids have a fun and safe place to go. He helps them with their homework while he draws them little cartoons. He buys coffee for homeless people when it’s cold.”

“And even though he doesn’t believe that our group will generate as much change as we hope it will, he’s there for every meeting. He designs our posters. I even got him to man a table once, but he ate half the free candy, so...” Here Enjolras paused to allow the audience a moment to chuckle. Inserting light humor into some of his speeches had been a trick Grantaire had taught him.

“You called him a devoted activist earlier. I like that word. No, he’s not an activist, but it takes a special kind of devotion to one’s friends to show up for years on end to a fight you think they’re going to lose, just to have their back. And being eternally kind in a world that you believe to be inherently cruel? That’s a kind of bravery I can’t begin to understand.”

“Well, he sounds like a very special young man,” the newscaster said after a moment of stunned silence. Whatever answer she thought Enjolras was going to give, that certainly hadn’t been it. “We all wish him a speedy recovery.”

Polite farewells were exchanged as the news segment ended, but Grantaire didn’t hear a word of it. He sat staring at the screen long after Enjolras had walked off, unable to formulate a reaction to what he’d heard. If his phone hadn’t rung, he was sure he would have sat there until the next time someone came to check his vital signs.

As it was, he jumped at the sound of the buzzing phone and answered without looking at the screen. “Hello?” He recognized that his voice didn’t sound like his own.

“Were you watching that?” It was Jehan. Beautiful, wonderful, caring Jehan. Because of course they knew that Grantaire would be watching and also tuned in to make sure Enjolras didn’t say anything too terrible.

Had Enjolras said something terrible? Had he said something wonderful? Grantaire didn’t know. Maybe Jehan could tell him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I was watching. I guess you were too?”

“I was,” Jehan confirmed.

“And that... that really happened?”

“If by ‘that’ you mean our fearless leader telling the entire city that you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread? Yes. That happened. What I want to know is what on Earth happened before that. Other than the obvious bit about you getting shot.”

So Grantaire told them. From the emergency room to what he remembered of the recovery room to the phone call. Jehan was quiet for a moment, clearly processing this new information, before declaring, “I am going to write so many poems about you.”

They both laughed, Grantaire offing some sort of weak protest but enjoying the way he felt less angry at himself than he had since before Enjolras’ call the previous night.

“Seriously though, R,” Jehan continued. “You know Enjolras isn’t a cruel person. Even if he can be especially harsh with you, he’s never deliberately mean. I seriously doubt he called you last night to tell you to back off and went with making fun of the idea of going for drinks with you as his method of deterrent.”

“Well when you say it like that,” Grantaire mumbled, and yes, that did sound really mean, even for Enjolras. “But I confessed my damn love to him, Jehan, I think he’s allowed to be harsh.”

“I think he was neither allowed to be and nor was he being so. I think he was trying, R, and we’ve all seen what happens when Enjolras tries too hard at a social interaction. It’s consistently a disaster. He made a good choice, I think, to just give up after upsetting you last night and circle back to what he does best. Speeches.”

“You think all of that was him trying to... what? Say that he doesn’t hate me? Say that he’d let me take him out on a date?” Grantaire’s voice broke into an embarrassing squeak on the final word. Jehan was gracious enough not to laugh.

“Well he was certainly trying to say something that was decidedly positive. And I know you’re going to try to talk yourself out of it, Grantaire, convince yourself that he couldn’t possibly have been trying to be nice to you, but just hear him out if he-”

Grantaire’s phone beeped, cutting through Jehan’s words. He glanced down at the screen and promptly dropped it. His hands were suddenly shaking as he scooped the phone off his lap and oh god he needed to not hit the wrong button. “Jehan, he’s calling me. What should I-”

“Go. Go get him, you brave and devoted friend.” Jehan hung up.

Without thinking, because the beeping had already gone on for a while and because if he thought about it, Grantaire would probably end up throwing his phone, he accepted Enjolras’ call.

“Well hello, oh great conqueror of morning news shows!” The greeting held none of his usual sardonic humor. His voice was shaking and he was breathless as though he had just been running. Well, Grantaire hadn’t really imagined his dignity would be making an appearance in this conversation anyway.

“You watched then?” Enjolras began without greeting. His voice sounded unsteady as well, but somehow that didn’t make Grantaire feel any better.

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

“Well the clothes were great- I’m assuming Courf helped with that. You did really well talking about the demands for the school and-”

“Grantaire, stop,” Enjolras pleaded. Pleaded? That was new. Grantaire obeyed. “Tell me what you think.”

“I think maybe I smacked your head on the stage when I pushed you down yesterday. Are you sure you don’t need a CT scan, E?” He knew it was the wrong thing to say. He hadn’t even wanted to say it. But he had no idea how to handle this situation, so his typical sarcastic deflection was his knee-jerk response.

Enjolras sighed. “Grantaire, please. Please for once just listen. It doesn’t always have to be a battle of words between us, you know.”

“I don’t want it to be.” And oh, was Grantaire still fuzzy from last night’s morphine? That was much too honest. But he could hear Enjolras smiling at him through the phone, so maybe it was alright. “That stuff you said was really nice, Enjolras. But I’m still me, you know? Just because I’m a moron with no sense of self preservation- or what did you call it? Devoted and brave?- Just because I’m that doesn’t mean I’m not still the annoying dude that you low-key hate.”

“But I don’t. You see, R, this is where we keep going wrong. I don’t hate you. And obviously I severely misconstrued your feelings towards me. I really didn’t even think you liked me, Grantaire. You seem to get on so well with everyone else and with me it’s just... We need to talk about it. Without the mind games we play with each other and without the threat of impending surgery.”

“And without a live television crew,” Grantaire added, because he truly did love ruffling Enjolras’ feathers. But Enjolras merely laughed softly.

“Yes. That too. So let’s try this again. When you get discharged, shall we meet at the Musain to chat? With frozen hot chocolates, as promised.”

“Yeah. Okay, that sounds great.” Grantaire’s voice was softer than he’d hoped. Enjolras inviting him to spend time together was the sort of thing that deserved a shouted “Absolutely, yes!” Maybe even a billboard or a sky writer. But his voice was warm with something he hadn’t heard in himself for far too long. It took a moment for him to recognize it as hope.

“Wonderful. And Grantaire? Would this be considered a date?” After a moment’s pause, Enjolras rushed on. “Please don’t think I’m being cruel or all those things you said earlier. I’m just trying to be very clear on things so that we can move past all this miscommunication.”

“Well what do you want it to be, Enjolras?” asked Grantaire. He’d showed his hand; Enjolras knew exactly what he felt. Whatever their next step, it had to be Enjolras’ choice.

“I’d like it to be, I think. If you would.”

“If I-?” Grantaire broke off and cleared his throat loudly. “Yeah, Apollo, I think I could manage that.”

“Excellent,” the happiness in Enjolras’ tone was entirely different that the sort he used when a protest went well or an election was called in their favor. This was warmth, not fire, and it made Grantaire feel like he was glowing. He wondered what that tone looked like on Enjolras’ face and prayed that he’d be able to see it at their meeting. Their date. “I’ll see you soon then, R. It’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. The phone call from last chapter and the TV interview were the original plot bunnies that got this story going in my mind. Hope I did them justice!
> 
> Sorry not sorry for the epic verbosity of this chapter. It’s inside Grantaire’s head, so that’s what happens.
> 
> I’ve planned to have one more chapter, the actual coffee date. But should I just leave it here???


	8. Frozen Hot Chocolates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date at the Musain finally happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Three months. I am so sorry, everyone.
> 
> But also, I’m finishing this story on Victor Hugo’s birthday, so maybe not actually all that sorry...?

Enjolras straightened his collar for what was surely the two hundred and seventeenth time. The collar on the shirt that was the fifth he’d tried on that day. Courfeyrac had counted.

He sat at a table in the front room of the Musain Student Center, facing the door. He was sure he’d sat in this seat on dozens of other occasions. But none of them felt like how he was feeling today.

Why was he so nervous? He had no reason to be nervous.

Well, to be fair, he’d been on a grand total of four other dates in his twenty five years of life. None of them had been second dates.

So alright, maybe he should be nervous. Because he wanted this to go well. And his track record was pretty awful. But this really really had to go well. And-

Grantaire walked into the Musian, looking hopeful and terrified all at once. His hair was neater than it was normally and his clothes were completely free from paint stains. Suddenly, Enjolras’s nerves were meaningless. This had to go well- and he had to make it go well- because for some reason this utter enigma of a man had given Enjolras his heart.

Enjolras met him at the counter and they ordered their frozen hot chocolates. Musichetta was working behind the counter, which made Enjolras feel even more anxious, but seemed to put Grantaire somewhat at ease. She smiled when Enjolras insisted on paying for both drinks. When Enjolras pulled two collapsible, reusable straws from his bag, she snorted with laughter.

“What?” Enjolras demanded, though he was much less annoyed than he was pretending to be. Grantaire’s poorly consealed grin encouraged him. “It’s a type of drink that benefits from using a straw. What is so wrong with me having my own sustainable alternative that protects innocent creatures from harm?”

“Yeah, Chetta,” Grantaire chimed in, amusement clearly overpowering his nervousness. “Don’t you like sea turtles?”

“Of course I do!” Musichetta replied, throwing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “I’m laughing at the fact that he brought one for you too.”

Somehow even Enjolras ended up laughing at that, (though he wasn’t entirely sure what was “hilariously endearing” about his actions). Eventually, they settled down and retreated to the back room. Enjolras was relieved that Musichetta wouldn’t be supervising their date; she was quite protective of “her boys”, which included Grantaire even though he wasn’t part of her romantic triad with Joly and Bossuet.

“So,” Grantaire began, lapsing back into anxiety now that they were alone together. He took a sip of his drink, clearly not knowing how to complete his thought.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” Enjolras stated, mostly out of a desperation to fill the silence. “Thank you for agreeing to come out with me, R.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s my line, but sure,” Grantaire mumbled. He wasn’t looking at Enjolras. This was already a disaster and nothing had even happened yet.

But Enjolras had come prepared. He’d thought through exactly what he wanted to say to clear away the years of misunderstandings and arguments. He took a deep breath and began. “We need to clarify things, Grantaire. Whatever it is between us and whatever it is we plan on doing with it, we need to speak it out loud and come to an understanding.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said breathily. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and spoke more firmly. “Yeah, that sounds good. You want to go first?”

Enjolras took another sip of his drink before beginning. Absurdly, the thought floated through his mind that if this went disastrously, he’d probably never be able to enjoy another frozen hot chocolate.

“I don’t know what to make of you. You’re brilliant and talented. You have so much to offer the world. But you do nothing to make use of your potential. At first I thought it was simply a lack of interest but I’ve come to believe that you don’t even see it. You don’t even see how much you have to offer, how much you bring to the table at our meetings, how you brighten the lives of so many people.

“Everyone sees you as a friend in a way that I don’t understand- and it’s not because I don’t want to be friends with you. You keep me apart from you in a way I don’t know what to make of. I honestly always thought it was just dislike, but even then- why? What did I do to you? And the thing that was always so confusing was that it bothered me. Why should I care? A lot of people don’t like me. But you’re kind. You love your friends- my friends. You help others. I didn’t understand why we can’t even have a civil conversation. I still don’t really understand it, but I know now that it’s much more complicated than a simple dislike.

“You look at things in a different way than I do. Sometimes it’s helpful. Sometimes it’s infuriating. I don’t know what to say when I’m around you half the time, which isn’t a problem I typically have. And as much as I don’t understand your thoughts on me, I find that I don’t understand my thoughts on you either. They’re things I haven’t had much experience with, and they’re tangled up with years of arguing, which makes it all even more confusing. And to be perfectly honest, sometimes it scares me. Sometimes you scare me. But I think I have to wade into it and deal with my fears along the way, because the thought of not having you in my life, or even of continuing on as we have been, is intolerable.”

Grantaire closed his mouth, which had dropped open slightly somewhere around the midpoint of Enjolras’s monologue. “Wow. Okay, um... Give me a second to think all that through before I respond, okay?”

“Of course.” They sipped at their drinks in silence for several long minutes, but Enjolras noted with surprise that he felt oddly relaxed. When thinking through his words in the preceding days, he hadn’t realized how much the situation had been weighing on him over the years. Now, whatever Grantaire’s reaction, Enjolras would have at least said his piece.

“Okay,” Grantaire began. Enjolras snapped his full attention on him at once. “You’ve clearly figured this out, but I don’t think all that highly of myself. I never have, really, and my life experiences have only reinforced that. And I don’t hold out that much hope for the rest of humanity either. I really want to, you know? And individual people can be so resiliant and noble and beautiful. But a lot of times they’re cruel and selfish in such ugly ways. And when you get them together in a society, they almost always do the wrong thing.

“But when I met you- when I met all of you- it was different. You truly want to do what’s best for the world and to make a positive change. Even if you fail, you genuinely mean it and that’s more than I can say for most people. And they like me. Jehan, Joly, Musichetta, Bossuet- all of them, really. They like me. Not just for a fun drunken adventure or a clever phone-a-friend or a restaurant recommendation. They like me. It probably sounds silly to you, but I’ve never had that before, and it changes everything.

“And then there’s you. Enjolras, I stopped believing in fairy tales like you when I was ten. You’re amazing- brave, determined, noble, beautiful. How could I not love you? I’m not going to pretend I didn’t say what I did in the Emergency Room. We’re here to talk things out, and you were clearly open with me, so I have to do the same, right? And you haven’t run away in disgust yet, so that’s a pretty solid start.” He broke off with that self deprecating chuckle that Enjolras was learning to hate more each time he heard it. “I worship you. But I don’t expect to ever have a chance with you. Honestly, I don’t know if I actually want a chance with you. I’ll just disappoint you.”

“I’m not actually perfect, you know,” Enjolras interjected, just barely keeping himself from snapping. He hated the marble pedestal that Grantaire had crafted for him.

“Of course I know. Perfect is dull and fake and not actually desirable at all. No, Enjolras, you’re human. You’re flawed. And that’s what makes you so incredibly beautiful. I wish- if I could ask anything of you, it would be that I’d want to see more of those flaws. What do the speeches sound like in their very first draft? Does that glorious golden mane of yours ever get tangled? What’s your idea of good mindless television?”

Enjolras smiled. Without hesitation, he knew that he’d love to show Grantaire those things and more. “And I want just the opposite of you. There are so many beautiful parts of you that you keep hidden from me- some that you keep hidden from everyone. Tell me what you would do if you could create a utopia, all thoughts of practicality and cynicism set aside. Let me laugh with you the way the others do. Show me your art.”

“And when I fall short?”

“I’ll be there anyway,” Enjolras said simply.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” he continued after a long moment when it became clear that Grantaire was at a loss for words, “that we balance each other out quite nicely? You as my reality check and me as your reminder that change for the better is possible? We’ve somehow managed to come to a silent agreement on this in matters of the ABC, though I know we could both make the effort to be less antagonistic. Or, no sorry. That’s the wrong way to phrase it. We need to accept that neither of us is coming from a place of dislike and evaluate the others’ words in that context.”

“Like you telling me off because I’m being obnoxious in a specific moment, not because you think I’m a waste of a human and wish that I wouldn’t come to meetings anymore?”

Enjolras resisted the urge to drop his head onto the table. “Yes, R. Very much like that. Anyway, perhaps we could manage it in a non-activism related context as well.”

“And what would that be like in your mind?” Grantaire asked. There was that wary look of hope again, as if he didn’t dare believe that something good could be happening to him. Enjolras wanted to teach him not to look that way anymore.

“Afternoons out where we don’t need to discuss all of this,” Enjolras began. “Where we could simply enjoy each other’s company. Debate issues- not argue, debate. Tell me when your next gallery show is. You tell me all the time that I miss out on films, television, and music that I would enjoy because I’m too busy working. Show them to me.

“You’re right, Grantaire, the world can be a terrible place. But we can make it better. I’ve always thought in terms of big picture- rallies, petitions, ways to change the system. You work on the individual level. The things I mentioned on the morning news. I’m not going to try to transform you into a banner waving activist, because we all like you just the way you are. But I’d be happy to engage in more hands on work with you.”

This wasn’t asking him out for coffee. What Enjolras was suggesting was life-building. But he meant every word that he said. Somehow, he didn’t think that Grantaire would be frightened or angry at his sincerity.

“Apollo, that sounds... more than I could ever dream of.” Grantaire’s voice was thick with emotion. It made Enjolras’s heart ache and soar simultaneously. “You said that we have to be clear in this conversation, and I agree, so... to be clear. You mean, like, boyfriends, right?”

And here was the part that Enjolras was dreading most of all. He felt his face burning. Looking down at his drink did nothing to conceal his obvious discomfort, but he did it anyway, desperate not to see Grantaire glare or roll his eyes at him. “I- I’m not sure. I like you R, I really do, but I just...”

“Yeah, no, of course,” Grantaire interjected. He didn’t sound angry at all. He sounded sad. Enjolras looked up to find Grantaire once again refusing to meet his eyes, stirring his drink with his collapsible straw. “I get it, Enj. You deserve to be with someone as incredible as you are. But being proper friends with you would be amazing.”

Well. That was Grantaire’s low self esteem talking. Now that Enjolras knew to look for it, perhaps he would be able to avoid the misunderstandings that it had caused between them in the past.

“If you’d think back to all the things I said just a few minutes ago, you’d know that I think you’re quite incredible, R.” The warmth he felt as Grantaire perked up at his words vanished immediately as he forced himself to continue. “It’s got nothing to do with you at all. I’m... I’m asexual, Grantaire, and no matter what happens between us emotionally, that won’t change and I don’t want it to. It’s a part of my identity.”

“Right...?” Grantaire stretched the sound out like a question, but Enjolras didn’t know what else to say. After several long seconds of silence, Grantaire barked out a laugh that cut through Enjolras like a knife. “That’s it? That’s your big statement, Apollo? ‘Hi I’m Enjolras and I’m ace?’ Yeah, I know. You have an ace up your sleeve, remember? It’s you. You’re the ace and you’re in those sleeves.” Enjolras smiled at that despite himself.

When he continued, Grantaire’s tone was much more serious. “Enj, I know that you’re asexual. Obviously. I’m still more than a little crazy about you. I’m not going to push you to do anything you’re not into. Ever. But it’s no reason for us not to be boyfriends, if that’s what you want.”

“But what if we’re together forever?” Enjolras hated how unsure his voice sounded.

“Well then that would make me the luckiest person in the world, wouldn’t it?” Grantaire’s sincerity was obvious. Still, Enjolras didn’t think he was properly evaluating what he was getting into.

“Even if I don’t ever want to...” And he was blushing again.

“Look, E, not that you want to know this, but I’ve got that situation pretty well... In Hand, as it were.”

Suddenly, Enjolras was blushing harder than ever, but also laughing so much he couldn’t breathe. “Oh my god, you’re ridiculous,” he choked out, actual tears running down his face. It wasn’t objectively all that funny, he knew, but it was so quintessentially Grantaire, the sort of wordplay that he and his friends so often engaged in, a well placed joke to cheer someone up. Warmth and kindness wrapped in irreverence.

Enjolras was in love with this man.

Enjolras had been in love with this man for a long time.

Oh.

He wiped away the tears of laughter and took a deep breath, pretending that he needed to compose himself from his amusement and not from his revelation.

“Thank you for that. But all joking aside. How can you know that it’ll be enough? That you won’t grow tired of a man who can’t give you what you desire.”

“Look, Apollo, I personally think sex is nice. But first off I’m an ugly starving artist who drinks too much and who’s been sort of hung up on someone for a long time. It’s not something I got a whole lot of anyway. And secondly, it’s nothing compared to a connection with someone. Your mind is the most radiant thing in the world. That’ll always be enough. You tell me what you feel comfortable with and maybe we could talk about your boundaries and see what things wouldn’t make you uncomfortable?”

Enjolras’ heart sank. Two of his four past first dates had ended along these lines. “In time, maybe you’ll learn to enjoy doing things with me.” “We could always try it and see what exactly you do and don’t like.” He couldn’t bear hearing those things from Grantaire.

“No. We need to be clear on this before anything happens between us, Grantaire. I’m not interested. I’m not going to learn to be interested over time. I’m not going to try things with you to see if I won’t hate it.”

Enjolras’s previous dates had grown angry at his firm limits. But the horror on Grantaire’s face showed that he was clearly not angry. Immediately, Enjolras felt himself relax. “God, of course not! Enjolras, that’s not what I meant at all. Shit, I’m sorry. You see? Already screwing things up. Enj, I would never. I don’t want to test your limits. I want to know your limits. I want to know what I can do physically that would make you happy, and to know exactly where to stop so I never make you uncomfortable.”

Of course that was what he meant. How could Enjolras have thought for a moment that Grantaire would try to pressure him? Grantaire, who jumped in front of a gun to protect him, would never put his desires in front of Enjolras’ comfort.

“That’s reasonable, of course. I don’t really know how to define my limits clearly, though. Could you ask me things? And I’ll tell you yes, no, or maybe?”

“Can I hold your hand?”

Enjolras nearly laughed before he noticed Grantaire’s earnest expression. Yes. Yes, he loved this man. He reached across the table and took Grantaire’s hand. “Absolutely. General rule of thumb, if cartoon characters can do it in a Disney film, you’re fine. Hugs, cuddles, dancing while a teapot serenades us.”

Grantaire chuckled, then asked, “How about kissing?”

“No tongue.”

“Okay. Yeah, I can do this, E. Don’t worry. I mean, whatever your rules were, I could have done it. But not being able to touch you at all would have been hard.”

“I like touch,” Enjolras informed him. “I know with my whole- how do you describe it? Fire of vengeance and determination of marble? I don’t always seem like the type. But I really do. And I trust you to respect my boundaries.”

“That I can absolutely do,” Grantaire answered confidently. “Don’t trust me to show up to meetings on time or be particularly good at being in a relationship. But you can always trust me to respect you and your needs.”

“Thank you. While we’re on the topic, I should probably clarify this, too. I’ve never been in a relationship. And even in non-relationship interactions I’ve been told I can be a bit of an interpersonal disaster.”

“This is factually accurate,” interjected Grantaire.

“So I’m probably going to be awful at this. I’m going to misread situations, I’m going to make mistakes. I’m going to hurt your feelings. But I’m rather good at changing tactics and not making the same mistake multiple times. So when I do those things, I need you to let me know. Don’t assume that I’m being rude because you’re not good enough or whatever else your self esteem issues tell you. Talk to me. Alright?”

“I’ll try. Be patient with me though, because sometimes those thoughts in my head are going to be louder even than you.”

“We’ll both learn,” Enjolras stated confidently.

Grantaire laughed. “You’re so damn sure, oh great Apollo. Corrupt politicians will fall. Justice will prevail. You and I won’t be a total disaster.”

“I’m always sure. And I’m prepared to fight to make the things I believe happen.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and squeezed Enjolras’s hand tightly. In that moment, he was beautiful in a way that Enjolras had never before seen. He looked... at peace. “What have you done to me, Enjolras? You went and ruined a perfectly good cynic. I... I think you might be right about this one.”

Enjolras pulled their joined hands together and pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s fingers. Grantaire’s soft gasp spread a strange warmth through Enjolras’ chest. “I most certainly am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!!!
> 
> Regarding E’s environmentally conscious straws: The company is called Final Straw. Get one. Save a sea turtle. The Friends of the ABC would want you to.   
> ...  
> ...the Friends of the ABSea...  
> ...I am so sorry.
> 
> THANK YOU ALL for being a part of this journey with me! Thank you, Monsieur Victor Hugo for creating a story that has changed the world and continues to do so.
> 
> Happy birthday, sir.


End file.
